


In Good Hands

by coup_de_foudre, greased_lightning_rod



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: AU - Magic, Crack Treated Seriously, Enchanted furniture, Enthusiastic Consent, M/M, PWP, Tampa Bay Lightning, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 04:33:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11524635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coup_de_foudre/pseuds/coup_de_foudre, https://archiveofourown.org/users/greased_lightning_rod/pseuds/greased_lightning_rod
Summary: One man's curse is another man's blessing.Or: Magical marine veterinarian Steven Stamkos gets a funky octopus print chair from his friend Victor as a housewarming present. He doesn't think Victor knew it didthis.





	In Good Hands

**Author's Note:**

> This crack treated seriously stemmed from a furniture shopping trip that yielded a beautiful but sadly prohibitively priced chair with an octopus motif. It looked comfy rather than threatening, thus sparking a discussion of how one might go about writing surprise tentacle fic that was cracky and consensual instead of creepy.
> 
> Thus, we present: whatever this is.

**The Montreal Alchemist**

**30 June 1867**

Jonathan Drouin, age 21, of Rue Magritte, was reported missing by his landlord on Friday.

Drouin is an apprentice of Magister Cooper. According to Cooper, the young wizard had been performing unsupervised experiments on enchanted furnishings, but several other apprentices dispute that claim, saying that Drouin had been relegated to cauldron cleaning. This is the second disappearance in as many years of an apprentice from the Cooper atelier. Slater Koekkoek, a promising young student of defense against the dark arts, was last seen in December of last year.

Anyone with information about Drouin or his activities of last week should contact Inspector Bouchard by Floo or owl.

 

**Montreal**

**Several Months Ago**

Victor is on vacation in Canada when he finds the chair in a chic Muggle antique shop.

It’s so unusual that he’s drawn to it immediately. He can’t place the style or the age; the graceful curves suggest an older piece, but the upholstery is definitely more modern. The cream-colored fabric—Victor runs his finger along the back—is soft, almost suede-like, but it’s the pattern that is the most eye-catching.  An octopus, printed in charcoal gray, the long arms curling and twisting across the seat and over the arms. As he stares at it, they almost seem to move. Victor squints, then shakes his head. It’s likely just a plain Muggle chair and he’s enjoyed the Montreal night life a little too much.

He’s been staring so long that he’s attracted the attention of the owner.

“May I help you?” she asks in English.

“Yes, this chair. Where did you get it?” The upholstery is pristine; it’s in mint condition, and it really does have a certain something.

The Muggle shop owner scratches the back of her head. “I couldn’t tell you,” she says. “It’s always just… been here.”

Victor’s suspicious, of course. But if the chair’s dangerous, he can’t work out how, and he’s practiced at this sort of thing. Besides, it’s the perfect housewarming present. It’s very Florida, and Steve could stand to shake up his décor a bit.

**Florida**

**Present Day**

At first, the chair is just a quirky conversation piece. To Steve’s Muggle friends, he easily explains it as “how a Swedish person thinks we decorate in Florida,” and to his wizard friends it’s fitting for a magical creatures veterinarian. “Guess Victor thinks you need to tame a kraken,” Cally jokes even as Steve tries to explain that krakens aren’t easily domesticated.

It’s a few weeks before Steve even sits in the chair for any length of time. To his surprise, it’s very comfortable. It’s the right amount of soft and firm and is delicious to slouch in.

One day Steve nods off in the chair. The sun is warm on his face and he’s comfy and he stretches out and the next thing he knows he’s having one of _those_ dreams. The ones where he’s not alone, but he can’t see who he’s with. He just gets an impression of dark eyes and a full mouth and wandering hands.

The dream isn’t _explicit_. There’s a fleeting brush of a kiss, a touch on the inside of his wrist, a palm burning a warm brand on his chest. But it’s been a long time for Steve, and he wakes up hard.

He feels like he’s been torn from a very promising situation. His dick tents his trousers hopefully.

Hell, it’s his own house. He can jerk off wherever he wants, right?

It’s not like anyone can see him. He’s facing the water; there aren’t any boats out right now. At least not close enough to see into his sun room. And he feels... electric, almost. Turned on in a way he hasn’t been in a long while, with company or otherwise.

Yeah, he’s doing this. He rubs his right hand over his thigh in anticipation. He might as well take his time, warm himself up right. He doesn’t have anywhere to be.

He pulls one leg up, bracing a bare foot on the edge of the ottoman, leaves the other leg stretched out so he’s comfortable but has room to move. 

He makes a little circle with his thumb over the fly of his khakis, shuddering a bit. 

He feels relaxed, and the chair is really comfortable for sprawling, almost like it wants to hold him at just the right angle.

He unbuttons his shirt slowly, pushes the fabric to the side so he can run his fingertips over his chest.

His nipples tighten as the air hits them; it’s been a long time since they’ve gotten attention, so he sticks two fingers in his mouth, sucking the tips to make them wet and because it just feels good to get his lips around something for a change.

 _Really_  good. His dick throbs in anticipation, and he moans around his fingers, closing his eyes and letting himself fall back into the fantasy. What if his dream lover were here? Would he touch Steve like this? Would he want Steve to touch _him_? Or maybe he’d just... watch, for a little while.

Steve desperately wants someone to touch him, but since that isn’t in the cards, he’ll have to do the job himself. He drags his fingertips down his chest to his nipples. They pebble immediately at the cool wetness, and Steve gasps a little. His lips are still wet too, and they tingle at every rush of air across them.

He could go to his bedroom and get a toy. Then at least he wouldn’t have to be empty somewhere. But something keeps him in the chair, circling his nipples in a cool tease, then pinching. He imagines his dream man watching, standing tall and lean in the shadows. Steve will make do.

He bites his lip as he watches himself, fingers plucking and pinching, then shifting to a slower circling tease, almost like his dream lover is directing Steve to do what he wants to watch.

As much as he doesn’t like the idea of a peeping Tom at his window, he does crave someone who wants to look him as he touches himself. He wants the dark-eyed man in his dream to see him. To appreciate him.

Steve takes in a shuddering breath as something brushes up against his sides, but he knows it’s just his shirt hanging open, tickling his skin. It’s enough for him to squeeze his eyes closed for a moment, though, imagining the man touching him like that, light and reading and promising.

Steve makes a small sound that echoes in the mostly empty room. It makes him sound more desperate. He _feels_ more desperate for sure. He’s so hard, and there’s a spreading spot in his underpants where the head of his cock is already wet.

He can almost smell the salt brine of his own arousal—but maybe that’s just the sea air blowing in through the open windows. He thumbs his nipples again, just a few more teasing touches and then he’ll take his pants off. He doesn’t want to have to use a stain remover. He can’t remember the last time he was so turned on he leaked this much. 

But when he stands to push his pants down, something wraps around his ankle. It startles him so much he trips into sitting again, shorts tangled around his thighs. When he leans down to check, though, there’s nothing. He must’ve just fallen.

At least his dick doesn’t seem to mind. Steve shoves his shorts down the rest of the way and closes his eyes for a deep breath, reaching for his fantasy once more. Dark eyes and hands that seemed to be everywhere at once....

He belatedly realizes that he was worried about staining his pants, but now, with his clothes discarded on the floor, he is bare-assed on the chair.

The hell with it. Besides, it’s strangely comforting; the fabric is softer than it looks, so he leans back again and touches himself. He strokes over his chest again with one hand—in his mind’s eye the man from his dreams leans forward, observing how sensitive he is there, but his face stays hidden. Steve cups his balls in his other hand, gently, as if he’s waiting for further instructions.

In his fantasy, Steve is only permitted to touch where he’s told, not his cock yet and certainly not his hole. That’s for the dark-eyed man to do. He imagines a kiss on the scruff of his jaw, light pressure, a little wet, and when he shuts his eyes tight, he almost can feel it.

Something wraps around his wrist, directing him to rub at his nipple. The touch is insistent and, like the kiss on his jaw, a little wet, a tiny bit slick.

Slick would be good right now, he thinks. His cock is wet, but he likes more than what nature provides for penetration, and he needs that tonight. Too bad he didn’t think of that before he fell asleep. He’ll just—wait a little longer. He feels good right now, he doesn’t want to interrupt, he wants to—

He wants to lean his head back, imagining his lover watching him. So he does, offering the best view he can. His throat works as he swallows, and he thinks about—about a hot dark gaze on his throat. Lips there, like the soft, damp kiss on his jaw.

He swears he feels another soft touch now, just over the pulse thrumming in his neck. His breath hitches. In his mind, it doesn’t feel like a mouth. It’s almost like a finger, or a hand. On his neck. Feeling the air enter his lungs and....

Steve swallows, and the cool, damp touch spreads farther, until it spans his throat. His pulse races, and he tightens his fingers on his nipple. His balls are heavy in his other hand and he wants to touch his cock, but he knows he isn’t allowed. Not yet.

The other nipple, on the other hand, should be fair game. He raises his hand from his balls—

And something wraps around his wrist and pulls it down, fastening it to the arm of the chair.

Steve gasps, instinctively struggling, but he’s held fast. He opens his eyes to see what holds him, but there’s nothing there.

Nothing he can _see_ , but he can definitely feel it as well as seeing where his skin is pink and white, like it would be if something were gripping him.

Something is definitely gripping him.

His heart pounds, arousal turning to alarm until the grip releases, not completely, but enough that it’s not as threatening. There’s a moist, soft drag over the inside of his wrist, a sort of soft coaxing across his outstretched palm.

Steve stares at seemingly nothing, transfixed. Even in his experience, this is deeply strange. He should probably be alarmed, but the stroking on his hand and arm is soothing, as is the return of the touch to his neck, wet and cool but nonetheless wonderful.

Again, he gets the sense of being watched as his imagination provides the hot dark gaze. The watcher in his head licks his lips; there’s just enough light for Steve to catch the hint of pink tongue.

“ _Please,”_ Steve mutters as if someone is listening.

The grip eases at his words, until it’s barely more than a touch. Something tickles lightly across his throat as it withdraws. Steve feels it whispering over his skin as it pulls away.

And suddenly he realizes it’s—whatever this is—maybe it misunderstood. He makes an involuntary noise, reaching for whatever crossed his palm, and catches it; it’s cool and spongy but supple, slick with—something. “Please,” he says again, barely more than a hoarse whisper. “Don’t stop.”

It feels too good to stop.

The things—thing?—pause. For a second Steve’s afraid he missed his chance. And then whatever he has grasped in his palm winds around his wrist again and drags it back to the arm of the chair.

Steve’s dick throbs.

At the same time, there’s a touch on his right ankle, then his left. The ropelike limbs climb his legs to his knees and coax, until Steve’s thighs are splayed as wide as the chair will allow. Another invisible rope binds his remaining hand to the arm of the chair.

His stomach swoops. He doesn’t know what’s happening, maybe this is all a wild dream, but he can still feel that gaze boring into him. He’s never been so turned on in his life.

Then the—fuck, okay, the _tentacle_ touching his neck contracts, pulling his head back, and Steve’s cock drips a glob of precome he can’t do anything about, because he can’t move. “Yes,” he whispers, and something touches his lips. The dream man’s eyes gleam.

Steve opens his mouth.

It pushes in, just a little, _just the tip,_ Steve thinks, which conjures another image that makes his mouth water. He tongues around it, closes his lips to suck a little. It’s not quite like a cock, but it’s so good anyway, thick and warm, and as Steve sucks harder, it gets wetter, releasing more of the sweet sealike slick in his mouth.

He moans around it; it—no, _he_ , Steve’s mind supplies, _he_ likes what Steve is doing to him, likes what he’s doing to Steve, how he’s making Steve desperate and open for him.

His body feels electric, like he’s outside before a storm. It’s a little dangerous and a lot exhilarating. He wants it so much, whatever his fantasy can give him.

His wrists are bound, his thighs coaxed apart. Steve squirms, tilting his hips to expose himself more because he needs more.  He sucks around the tentacle in his mouth, unwilling to stop even to beg it to touch his cock, touch his ass, either, both.

It turns out he doesn’t have to. The grip on his thighs moves higher, immobilizing him but also creeping closer to the swell of his ass. Anticipation makes Steve’s breath come faster, and the tentacle strokes over his tongue. Steve gasps a little, or means to, but it turns into a whine.

He—the dream man, whoever he is—must understand. Because the tentacle pauses, then withdraws only to push deeper again, steadily fucking Steve’s mouth. The slick has started to escape his lips, now, trickling down the sides of his face.

Steve needs more. And it looks like he’s going to get it.

The tip of one of the tentacles around his leg teases at the crease of his thigh where it meets his ass, as though it knows exactly what Steve wants and is determined to make him crazy for it. He sucks harder, and his cock pulses, and in reward the tentacle strokes his tongue again before tightening around his neck just a little.

Oh God.

The pressure is just enough to make him conscious of every breath he takes, like it—he—knows just how to make Steve feel good without doing him harm. It’s crazy that something he can’t even see, that Steve isn’t one hundred percent sure is even real, knows him well enough to keep him right on the edge of danger and pleasure.

He sucks the appendage in his mouth and is rewarded by a slippery brush at his hole. He shivers, bears down in search of more contact. The next stroke is more deliberate, pressure firmer so that the slow, slick drag has him writhing.  Nothing has touched his cock yet and part of him despairs at that.  He’s held securely at the neck and wrists, though, his mouth full and soon his ass as well. 

Steve might not even need anyone to touch his cock for him to come.

The tentacle circles his hole, presses in like it suspects as much and intends to test the theory.

Steve’s stomach clenches in anticipation, but the next second he wants to groan again as the tentacle withdraws. It isn’t even a groan of disappointment—he _loves_ being teased, and this is especially delicious. Having to wait for it. He can’t ask for more, can’t even move. All he can do is suck and lick at the appendage in his mouth while the one at his hole repeats the earlier game: just the tip. A pointed circling around his hole. Then pushing inside him, a little farther each time.

Steve lets the arm in his throat push deeper. His eyes fall half closed. In his imagination the man from his dream watches intently from the shadows.

Finally the tentacle at his hole thrusts in deep, stretching Steve wide, pressing firm against his prostate. He cries out in pleasure, but it’s muffled by the arm in his mouth. He feels like he could come any second, and they’ve barely started. He wonders if the creature fucking him will stop, or if it will keep going until Steve can’t.

He can’t wait to find out.

He doesn’t have to wait long. The insistent press inside him makes him whine; the right amount of pressure in just the right spot that is going to get him there, for sure.

Every muscle in his body tenses, he sucks at the length in his mouth, clenches around the one in his ass, and—

The pressure subsides.

Steve wails, sucks in a deep breath because he can, as the tentacle in his mouth has retreated, resting slickly against his parted lips. The other appendage leaves him to try to squeeze around almost nothing, only the slippery, blunt tip. His airway is free from pressure too, and even as he breathes deeply, he is willing to beg for the attentions to return.

Maybe the man wants him to. Steve thinks of his deft fingers and sensuous mouth—a mouth he can see now in its entirety, full and demanding.

Yes, this man would want that from him.

“Please,” he begs, “I want—I need this, need _you_.”

The confession is twofold. He’s not sure what he needs more, the provocative tentacles teasing and arousing him to the point of insanity, or the lover in his mind.  A faint voice in the back of his mind speaks his most hidden and impossible desire: _What if they’re one and the same?_

Again, the response to his words is instant. The press at his throat resumes, firm and sure; his mouth opens to welcome back the intrusion there. The tentacle in his ass presses in again, but this time it’s thrusting in and out, fucking him slowly as the slick appendage makes him wetter and wetter. It’s like being rimmed and fucked at the same time.

Steve moans as he sucks the appendage in his mouth. He’s a desperate, greedy, sluttish mess— which he thinks was the goal here, to have him flushed and loud and spread open, eager for everything that he can get.

_Yes._

As luck would have it, _everything_ turns out to be more than he already has. The tentacles shift him so he’s reclining further, as easily as if he weighed nothing. Steve’s ass moves closer to the edge of the chair. Easier access, he guesses with a shudder.

Something slithers across his stomach. Steve swallows around the tentacle in his mouth and looks down, expecting to see the same nothing he’s seen all evening. Instead he sees—something. Transparent, reddish-brown in color, lighter-colored suckers underneath. So not actually a tentacle, but an arm like an octopus, and definitely—Steve writhes as much as he can as a sucker latches onto his nipple— _definitely_ magic.

This chair was a fucking bargain.

He’s nearly overcome with sensation, the slick, pulsing flesh in his mouth, the strong but careful arms restraining him, the thrusting in his ass and now the sucking at one nipple, then the other. Steve wants to watch what’s happening to him, but there’s a sound, and he looks into the shadows to find that his dream lover has stepped into the light. He’s beautiful, tall and lean, with sharp cheekbones and those lips curled into a satisfied smile under knowing dark eyes. The sensations he feels intensify—heavier, hotter, the pulsing of those limbs that seems to echo his own pounding, racing heartbeat.

Steve finally feels the need to move his hands, so he twists his wrists and just as he does, the arms holding him ease their grip so he can turn his hands over and cling to his companion.

Everything is warm and throbbing and so wet. The slick thrusts in his ass have picked up with the insistent rhythm again at just the right spot to bring him to the edge.

 _Yes_ , he thinks, surrendering to the pleasure coursing through him. The wet arm in his mouth seems to pulse, tickling over his palate. He whines, sucks as hard as he can. He’s so close, he just needs a little more—a little—

_Just a little more, please, I need it._

Another arm crawls up between his legs. As if his dream lover, this thing, has heard him. As if it wants to give him what he needs.

A thick tentacle wraps around the base of his cock. Steve tries to scream as it almost pushes him over the edge, but before it can, it tightens, cutting off his incipient orgasm. He sobs around the appendage in his mouth and the pressure on his neck tightens too.

_Yes, yes, yes._

He isn’t coherent, but he gets what he wants anyway as tears spill, wetting his lashes as the arm inside him thrusts deeper, filling him slick and thick; he’s never felt so full. He tries to grind down on it as he sucks and grasps the arms with his hands. Everything is wet, tight, hot, and he’s got almost too much of everything.

The pressure around his cock gives as the tentacle there slides up to curl around the head, tickle the slit there, and Steve feels everything as he shudders, screams, and comes.

 _Yes_ , he hears, but it doesn’t feel like his own thought. The restraints around his wrists and throat tighten and Steve goes lightheaded as his orgasm goes on and on. The tentacle around his dick contracts and releases, drawing out the pleasure; the one in his ass has curled in on itself to tug at his rim, too big to pass through but just right to send him flying. The suckers on his nipples don’t let up, and he’s sore, it hurts, but it feels so good. His vision grays out and he comes _again_ , mouth slack around the tentacle, no air in his lungs to make a sound.

Just as he’s about to lose consciousness, the thing releases him. Air rushes into his lungs. The tentacle in his mouth withdraws, leaving a slick trail on the side of his face. The arms across his chest loosen and pull away, leaving his skin marked with tiny purple bruises. The ones around his thighs take longer; they’ve been holding him up, and they shift him back more securely on the chair as the pressure around his dick disappears. Then the one in his ass pulls out, unwinding first and then slithering away.

Steve pants, sloe-eyed and openmouthed, unable to believe how incredible he feels or how filthy he is or even wrap his mind around what kind of magic he just experienced. He hasn’t recovered enough to even think about standing when there’s a sizzle of ozone and the pop of a spell breaking and the chair beneath him _disappears_.

He yelps and flails, arms windmilling out to the side as he falls back, bracing for his ass to hit the hardwoods, but he’s caught.

Steve realizes he’s landed on something much less unyielding than the floor, and it becomes clear it’s a _who_ , not a _what_ as strong arms— _human_  ones—embrace him, breaking his fall.

“The hell—” he exclaims, panicked that the now disappeared chair was a ruse, a trap, _shit, shit_ , he should have been suspicious because nothing could be this good without some tinge of dark magic. Steve struggles and turns abruptly in the embrace, which brings his chin to a quick, firm collision with the nose of his assailant.

“ _Tabarnak!”_ he exclaims as he releases Steve to bring his hands to his nose. Beautiful dark eyes widen in pain.

Steve recognizes them.

He falls on his ass after all (which, ow), but at least it’s a shorter trip.

“Uh,” he says. That isn’t the sort of curse he was expecting. Then—it’s rusty, but he’s Canadian; he did take French in school. Even if it’s terrible. “Tu parles francais?”

His (extremely handsome and naked) dream man stares down at him, his hand still covering his nose. “Better than you,” he answers in English. Then he takes his hand from his face—no blood, fortunately—and says, “Sorry, that was rude. It’s been—I’ve been stuck in a chair for a really long time?”

Steve looks at him. He looks at where the chair was. There’s nothing—no splintered pieces of wood, no shreds of fabric. “Actually I think you’ve _been_ the chair.” Then reality kicks back in and he realizes he’s naked and freshly fucked and this guy is responsible.

And also naked, and _hot_ , and a couple other things Steve can’t process right now.

“That would explain some things,” the gorgeous man says. “I think I have you to thank for breaking the curse.” He holds out his hand to Steve. “I’m Jo.”

A curse. Of course. Though Steve has to wonder what Jo had done to deserve _that_ —and what exactly was meant to break the curse. “Steve,” he answers. He takes Jo’s outstretched hand, though a handshake seems oddly formal under the circumstances. Jo clasps his hand firmly and holds on for maybe a fraction too long. Ears burning, Steve adds, “I wouldn’t like to meet whoever cast that curse.”

Jo looks around for the first time, taking things in. “Well, given how long I seem to have been in there, I don’t think you have to worry.”

Steve feels for him. He must be a bit at sea. “Can I offer you a shower? And maybe dinner?” He hopes that’s not too forward, but, um, considering, he’s probably in the clear. “It seems like the least I could do.”

The expression Jo turns on him is cautiously optimistic, but he doesn’t answer yet. He must be waiting for something else.

Steve tries again. “And since I’m without my favorite chair, then maybe we could take this to the bedroom?”

That must satisfy Jo, because he finally nods and smiles. And then he says, looking a little mischievous, “Show me the way.”

 


End file.
